A Man of Habits
by Katelyn Isilhin
Summary: Oneshot ficlet character study, in which Holmes is being reclusive (well, more so than usual), and Watson gets angry enough to to something about it. Absolutely no slash or language or anything else, as always. Mention of drugs. My very first ever Sherlock Holmes fic! Please read and review and refrain from all acts of violence towards me!


**A/N:** My muse attacked me and here's the result. It will start in Watson's POV and then go to Holmes'. It would be very nice of you all if you did not burn me for my bad writing. This is my very first Sherlock Holmes fic, so please be merciful! And (hopefully) enjoy! ;)

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**Watson's POV**

"You know I am not in the habit of divulging extraneous personal information, Watson." said Holmes with no little annoyance, no doubt glaring at the door beyond which I stood.

I seethed. Really, Holmes could be almost unbearable sometimes. My friend had locked himself in his rooms, as he often did, when suffering those black depressions that he would alternate between when not actively working. I had endeavored, over the past few days, to coax him out of his self-inflicted isolation and his chambers by offering him the pleasures of the world around us and of our friendship, to no avail. And now I had knocked on his door, asking him if he was alright, knowing he was probably in the grips of that infernal cocaine, as was his custom during these times. His response was an answer in itself. I knew I should have turned away, knowing there was nothing I could do, but I let my desperation and rage at seeing a great man and a great mind slowly self-destruct get the better of me, able to hold out no longer.

"When will you be breaking that unfortunate practice?" I said with some heat.

"When I am in the mood." he replied carelessly.

"And when will _that_ be?" I shot back, my anger beginning to be evident in my voice.

"When no one is present to witness it; when I am _alone_." he said pointedly.

It was then that I let my emotion have free reign, and so with a sudden effort I threw my shoulder against the door and it gave way with a loud _crack_, (and no small damage, which was awkward to explain to Mrs. Hudson later that day). I then, to my shame, intruded upon my friend's rooms, and upon his privacy. There he sat on his bed, clad in his dressing gown, the sleeve of which was rolled up, revealing the innumerable puncture marks on his arm. In his hand he held the accursed syringe. It took no Sherlock Holmes to deduce his activities.

"But you are _always_ alone!" I burst out. "As long as you are like this, never letting anyone in, never letting yourself out, you'll _never_ stop being alone!" I referred, of course, not to the physical barricade that had been his door, but the emotional barricade that my friend had surrounding his soul, walls as high and as thick as the walls of Jericho themselves. And it was only a miracle that would bring them tumbling down, so great was his will. I was his closest, and, indeed, his only friend, yet he still kept me so distant from his heart that I was always aware of the barrier he had erected between us.

It was then, when I had released my anger, that I realized what a grievous trespass I had made. I was too ashamed to meet his intense gaze and let mine drift down to the floor, mortified at what I had done.

Whoever deserved such a horrible friend as I?

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**Holmes' POV**

Watson was angry with me. This much I could hardly overlook; I had, in fact, been expecting it. I admit I had been rather shocked at his forced entry, although I knew I had been pushing him to his limits and an enraged outburst was not long in coming. I had been trying to resist the call of the drug, and had been on the point of giving in, with the syringe poised in my hand, when he had burst in. Now, as he stood there before me, looking at the ground, thoroughly abashed, like a scolded child, I felt a small throb of sympathy for the man who tried so hard to keep me from committing what he saw as a crime against myself.

He claimed that when I utilized my natural barriers against the world and the destructive effects of sentiment I would essentially be alone, estranged from all other souls on this earth, like a man stranded on an island in the middle of the ocean.

Not so!

My dear friend's mere presence in the room was like a healing salve to my mind, upon which there are so many self-inflicted wounds from all the times that inactivity have taken their toll. He was a fixed point in my world of extremes, and his stocky, dependable form and dreadfully obvious comments brought incomparable comfort, grounding me like an anchor. He was as to me the proverbial lighthouse when I was adrift in dark, stormy waters.

And I would die by my own hand before I admitted any of these things to him.

I channeled my annoyance at his intrusion and anger and the pathetic state of my door into a response, always needing to maintain the image I had created for myself.

"I find it rather hypocritical of you to chide me for my treatment of the flat when you yourself are no better. I hope you are prepared to explain your behaviour to Mrs. Hudson." I snapped in a sharp tone.

I internally cringed, knowing that was that was not what he deserved. When I observed my friend, flinching at my words as he gazed helplessly at my untidy floor, I knew that he believed he had received nothing more than his deserts.

Regret blossomed in my chest. He raised his head and I saw pain and a deep regret that mirrored my own in his eyes, and I could tell, with a sharp pang of my own shame, that my churlish words and hit home. I could see him gathering his thoughts for a condolent speech, but I forestalled him with a raised hand.

I offered a him smile and a cigarette as an apology.

"You must forgive my words, old boy. You know how these moods affect me."

He breathed a sigh of relief, which I copied internally, knowing in that moment that my thoughtless behaviour had been forgiven. He came forward and took the metaphorical olive branch from my hand.

"I know. It's quite all right. I'll - I'll make sure the door gets taken care of as soon as possible." He fidgeted and glanced downwards before once again making eye contact. "About that, I am so-"

"No, Watson!" I exclaimed. He looked at me in surprise.

"Do not apologize. The fault is entirely mine." I said emphatically. He looked at me, utterly shocked and not a little mystified. Then a smile slowly creeped over his features.

"The great Sherlock Holmes? Apologizing? Whatever _will_ the papers say?"

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. "Don't become accustomed to it." I then smiled back at him, offering a light for his cigarette, which he accepted with a grin.

What have I ever done to deserve a friend such as he?

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**A/N: **So there you have it! My very first Classic!Holmes fic! I hope everyone was in character. I wrote this one in a few hours in a fit of inspiration, so I hope it doesn't seem rushed. I've been avoiding SH until now because I was afraid of messing up the character, a crime I would very much like not to commit. Please, PLEASE review! It would mean so so much to me!


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